


Souvenirs

by gellavonhamster



Category: Dracula - Bram Stoker
Genre: Don't copy to another site, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 17:01:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28531872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gellavonhamster/pseuds/gellavonhamster
Summary: “I remember stitching up this one,” Jack remarks, tracing a scar on Quincey’s shoulder with a tip of his finger.
Relationships: Quincey Morris/John Seward
Comments: 6
Kudos: 14





	Souvenirs

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Сувениры](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28531755) by [gellavonhamster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gellavonhamster/pseuds/gellavonhamster). 



“I remember stitching up this one,” Jack remarks, tracing a scar on Quincey’s shoulder with a tip of his finger. The scar is already pale but still prominent, uneven, resembling a primitive picture of a lightning bolt. “Colorado, right?” 

“Oklahoma,” corrects him Quincey, and chuckles. “A fun day it was, wasn’t it?”

“I suppose so, if you believe that nearly dying is fun… which you probably do.” 

“Not always,” Quincey wraps his arm around Jack’s waist and pulls him closer. Both of them are still hot and sweat-soaked; cuddling up to each other ought to be unpleasant. However, it is not. “But look me in the eye and tell me it wasn’t a first-rate adventure.” 

Jack remembers that day – the oppressive heat, the sun high in the sky, the gang of bandits attacking the train. There was no one to await help from, so the passengers, among which were also he, Quincey, and Arthur, had to defend themselves and, surprisingly, managed to beat the robbers back with less casualties than one would expect. He remembers the smell of gunpowder and the sounds of battle, the weight of a pistol in his hands, and the quiet sobs of the women and children hiding under the seats. He remembers the realization that there was no other way but to fight – not because it was noble or commendable, but because they needed to survive somehow. He remembers what it is like when panic suddenly gives way to clarity of thought, as if someone else is in control of his body, someone much braver and more confident than he. The panic returned when everything was over, when he stepped on a corpse at the platform, when Quincey stumbled into the carriage with a knife handle sticking out of his shoulder – but during the fight itself his heart was an eye of the storm. 

“It certainly was… an interesting experience,” he admits. “An enlightening one. Which I would rather not repeat,” he hastens to add as soon as he notices Quincey’s contented grin. “Scars are not the best kind of souvenirs to bring back from travels.” 

“That depends. Such kind of souvenirs surely won’t let you forget those travels,” Quincey definitely is of an opinion that arguing jokingly about various absurd subjects is also fun. In this respect, however, Jack is of the same mind. “And they are splendid illustrations for the stories about those travels, particularly if you want to make one hell of an impression on those listening to you…”

“Well, go on, then. Impress me,” Jack suggests. He is aware that he’s stalling for time, unwilling to break the embrace, get out of bed, and return to his rooms at the asylum, even though he cannot afford not to spend the night there for so many days in a row – in a hospital, anything could happen anytime, and being the head doctor, he ought not to leave it for long. This is what his common sense tells him, yet his soul and body keep getting better and better at ignoring its admonitions. It was much easier to retain prudence when all he had were the thoughts he had grown used to pushing away in shame and tried to play over in his head as rarely as possible. It is more difficult by far to keep his passions in check after having a taste of what he’s longing for – a literal taste as well, the taste of kisses and sweat and seed, the feeling of another’s fingers in his mouth. If he could go back in time and refrain from making this mistake, he would have certainly made it again and again and again. “You cannot use this one, of course.” 

“Of course. Hmm…” Quincey takes Jack’s hand in his and guides it down, to his hip. The scar there must be old, a smooth light spot on brown skin. “I was fourteen when someone attempted to rob our ranch. Father and brothers weren’t home then – I don’t remember why, must’ve gone to town, so it was just me, my pregnant mother, and our old maidservant. In other words, it was actually just me against these three bastards.”

“Was that so?”

“You bet it was. Well, what was there to do? Mother and Abigail – the maid – barricaded themselves in the parents’ bedroom with a gun, and I took another gun and went to welcome our dear guests. When I took one down, another one got scared and bolted, but the third one flew into a rage and rushed straight at me. He had a hunting knife…” 

“With which he struck right into your old scar?” Jack can’t resist interrupting him.

Quincey blinks at him, puzzled. “My old scar?”

“Why, of course,” Jack says, trying his best to keep a straight face. “I recall that when we visited your family, your mother told Arthur and me how as a child you vexed a cow once, and it butted you in the left hip. With all its strength, so that you still have a mark.” 

Quincey stares at him in astonishment, then throws his head back, and bursts into laughter.

“Oh, screw you,” he says, having stopped laughing. “You know me too well.”

“I just remembered this for some reason, that is all. It is strange you did not remember it – you were laughing the loudest as she was telling us that…”

“Damn it, Jack, you told me to impress you! Ain’t easy to impress a man who’s already heard half of what I can boast about and seen the other half with his own eyes.”

“Well, sorry for being harder to surprise than a barmaid in a saloon,” Jack says, and bites his tongue at once. He isn’t sure this is an appropriate joke. As a matter of fact, he still isn’t sure about many things, though to a lesser extent than back when he kissed Quincey for the first time, grabbing him by the shirt collar and feeling like he’s making a step into emptiness. 

“Far harder,” Quincey agrees. His eyes are still smiling, so the joke must have been not entirely disastrous. “But that is all right,” he continues, caressing Jack’s back. Perhaps one day Jack will get used to being looked at the way Quincey is looking at him now, but he still isn’t sure about that either. “I like you better.”


End file.
